


Stan Uris Drops the Mic

by sloppybitchtozier



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Gay Richie Tozier, IT (2017)-compliant, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Soft Richie Tozier, Stanley Uris is a Good Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:01:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22184503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sloppybitchtozier/pseuds/sloppybitchtozier
Summary: My girlfriend and I were watching It Chapter Two, and thought of how the line in Stan's letter 'be who you want to be, be proud' could apply to all of the Losers but that we felt it was a comment from Stan aimed specifically at Richie and we came to the conclusion that we believed if Richie would have ever actually told anyone about his 'secret', we felt it would be Stan.This led us to wondering when that would have gone down and so I wanted to write it out just for fun because I love me some of that Richie/Stan friendship and I love my kids and just want the best for them, okay?I have never in my life written anything for fun. I write 20+ page academic papers almost on the regular and that's fine and dandy but it basically means, I'm not familiar with this at all. I didn't reread this and I don't have a beta or anything fancy, it's just me being an idiot having a good time. Tread lightly and know you've been warned. I apologize in advance for any messiness you find here. This was just a passion project one-shot for me. Thanks to anyone who ever happens to find it and actually reads it. I hope you like it, at least a little. x
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 71





	Stan Uris Drops the Mic

_ I know I’m a loser. And no matter what, I always fucking will be. _

It wasn’t that Stan didn’t swear. All of them swore. “Them,” in this case, being the Losers. Almost everyone their age did, really. Granted, maybe some people swore more than others, and Stan fell on the lesser-end of the spectrum. But no, it wasn’t that. It was the way Stan was about his parents. Even when Stan was with the rest of them, outside his home, away from the watching eye of his father especially, Stan always seemed to be under that influence. The looming sensation of being the son of the Rabbi clung to Stan wherever he went and followed him around like a lingering fog. 

Some days were better than others, when Stan would let himself break away from it a little more, or he wouldn’t seem as tightly-wound, or he’d simply be easier on himself; but the influence was always there.

So no, Stan didn’t swear much as it was; and serving as the one who coined the nickname “Trashmouth,” for Richie, reserved some of his own opinions on the act of it. Regardless of all of that, Stan  _ never _ swore in front of his parents and Stan  _ especially _ never swore in front of his father. Yet there it had been all the same. For what Richie thought must be the first time in his entire period of knowing Stan, Richie saw him seem to break completely free of that influence. In front of his father, in front of the congregation,  _ “I’m a loser and I always fucking will be.”  _

Richie couldn’t believe it. How could he be expected to  _ not _ break into applause? 

His mother didn’t let that last, naturally.

So Stan had left. Literally pulled a mic drop, turned and given his father one of the hardest expressions Richie had ever seen -- and believe that Richie had seen a  _ lot  _ of hard Stanley expressions -- and left. Fucking left! Went out the door. His tallit, draped over his shoulders, twisted and wound its way around him as he went; fluttering and wrapping in his hurried, adrenaline-fueled movements as he broke through the front doors. 

The sounds of the horrified, hushed murmurs that had been emerging and beginning to circulate throughout the room since Stan’s speech took a sharp turn, followed by his exeunt, had begun to increase in volume. Richie was silently overjoyed to see Stan’s dad looking like he was choking on his own tongue, complete with a vein becoming suddenly especially prominent over his left temple.

Let’s be frank. Stan’s dad was a dick. Granted, he hated Richie, so that could have some influence on both Richie’s opinion as well as the way he’s always behaved whenever Richie had been around to see him, but still. He seemed set on making Stan feel inadequate and addressing him as a constant failure in his eyes. The little constant remarks of  _ “Maybe if you focused on making an effort, Stanley, you’d see real results” _ and  _ “What do you think people around town will think of me, when they see you out with those other kids? Do you want to be associated solely with bad influences? Do you think about how that makes your mother and I look?” _

It was bullshit. Stan did nothing but good things for himself and everyone else. He never did anything wrong or malicious to anyone, and he always tried to do right by his parents. By his dad; let alone everyone else. As a result, Stan was always, to some degree, stressed. Even at the best times, Stan would have just a little part of him in the back of his mind that was still scrutinizing whatever he might be doing. Even with that in mind, Richie never saw Stan more stressed than when he was trying to do something for the sake of his dad. If his dad wanted something done, Stan wanted it to be perfect; and nothing Stan ever did was perfect to Donald Uris. Richie thought that deep down Stan knew that would always be the case, but it didn’t stop him from making an effort like he always did. That was just the way Stan was.

Now, Richie shifted uncomfortably where he stood in the middle of a room full of shocked adults still reeling from Stan’s little outburst as if some skinny Jewish kid saying “fuck” at his bar mitzvah was the most startling thing to have ever happened in Derry. You know, the town with the history of murders and dismemberment featuring primarily children, and the demonic clown from space living in the sewers?

Richie’s mom was talking to some other women who had just spoken to ol’ Donald Uris and listened to his almost rehearsed-sounding apology that he was slowly making his way around the room to spread. It wasn’t hard for Richie to slip away unnoticed by his mother on your average day, let alone when something even mildly controversial or worthy of gossip had just gone down and she had others to talk to about it. If Richie was being honest, he didn’t even know if it was a matter of his parents not noticing him always running off from them that made it easy for him to do it, or if it was simply a matter of disinterest on their part. Maybe both. It didn’t matter, he’d decided.

Richie turned and went out the same way Stanley had, rocking back and forth on his feet a little once he was outside. It was sunny, only barely past noon at this point, and he squinted as his eyes adjusted to the drastic change in lighting from the interior of the musty synagogue to the front steps outside the main doors. No sign of Stan. 

After a moment’s consideration, Richie remembered Stan wouldn’t have taken his bike here today, so he couldn’t be too far off; and he wasn’t. The library was down the road just a little ways, and as Richie approached the building from the side he noticed Stan from a distance, seated by the trunk of one of the larger trees near the back of the building. Richie increased his pace and ran -- though it was more of a trot, really -- over to where Stan was sitting, collapsing in the grass to sit beside Stan once he reached him.

Without even thinking, like some tick or reflex beyond his own conscious decision, Richie’s announcer voice bubbled up out of the back of his throat as though to notify Stan of his arrival as he remarked, “And today, our very own favorite Jew kid from down the block, ‘Stan the Man’ Uris, shocks viewers around the world! Mic drops right in front of his borderline heart-condition old man! Does the moonwalk out the front doors! The crowd goes  _ wild _ ! Catch him next week on  _ Rabbi Sons Gone Wild _ ! But don’t worry! Stay tuned afterwards for a brief update on the latest chewed up body parts found around Derry, scheduled to be forgotten by next Wednesday’s baseball game! Yes sir!” 

At that, Stan turned to glare at Richie, unamused. 

Alright, not funny. Bad timing.

Richie shifted into a more comfortable position, resulting with his legs flopped and outstretched on the grass in front of him. Beside him, Stan had turned to look away again, his own arms around his knees and looking ahead of himself at nothing in particular. Richie followed his gaze anyway and squinted from behind his glasses, knowing full-well he wouldn’t be able to see anything Stan might be looking at anyway. That’s what you get when you’ve got shit-for-eyes and coke bottles for lenses. Knowing Stan, he was probably looking at some bird, which Richie wouldn’t know to look for anyway.

There was a moment of silence that stretched -- albeit not uncomfortably -- between them before Richie would break it again, noticing a grass stain on his pant legs that he no doubt got when he took his place beside Stan. “I know it’s a hot look for me and all,” he says, “But Jesus fuck, this shit sucks to wear.” He began to wriggle as he squirmed free of the pale blue suit’s coat, tossing it aside. It was an uncomfortable material and it didn’t sit well even after a brief jog in this weather, plus it had really only been for appearances which were now rendered unnecessary.

Richie hadn’t needed to wear a suit since attending his grandmother’s funeral when he was eleven. To his mother’s misfortune, Richie had a tendency to grow faster than getting most clothes were worth as it was, let alone something like a suit. So the black suit from the funeral definitely didn’t fit anymore, they realized too late, and the blue one Richie wore today had been obtained last minute from Freese’s; only color in stock. Maggie Tozier hadn’t been happy with the result, but then again she didn’t ever like anything Richie wore. No satisfaction came from getting clothes for your frequent embarrassment of a son when you’d rather be dressing up the ideal little girl and all of that. Richie himself didn’t mind the color, though. He liked wearing more vibrant clothes when he got the chance. With that said of course, he preferred that in the form of jeans and a button-up over a t-shirt, not a three-piece suit. But for Stan, he supposed, he could make an exception. 

After another pause, Richie turned to look at Stan, “Don’t worry though, Stan, you don’t have to be jealous. You look great too, and you were  _ definitely  _ the center of everyone’s attention back there. Especially when you dropped a  _ fuck  _ bomb on all the crusties. Though I’m not sure if another missing kid’s gonna be quite enough yet to make them forget-”

“Richie.”

Stan wasn’t looking at him, but Richie had stopped talking, anyway. He knew what Stan’s tone meant. Richie knew when he needed to stop. He couldn’t help that part of him, ever-present, that felt he had to fill the silences. Say something, make other people laugh, right? It felt like the right thing to do. Richie got nervous when it got quiet. Fidgety. When eyes were on him, he felt like he had to be doing something entertaining. Or else- then what? What was he beyond that? 

“Just shut up, alright? Just sit here with me.” Stan said beside him, looking at Richie for a moment before looking down at his own hands wrapped around his knees. 

So Richie did shut up, and he did sit with him. He absently picked at the grass between his legs to keep his hands busy, and sat there with Stan for a few minutes in silence. They were mostly in the shade now, so Richie didn’t feel as hot anymore, but the sun was being peppered down, spilling through the gaps between the leaves of the tree across the grass outstretched in front of them. It was nice. Being there with him. With someone.

It had been difficult, the last few weeks.

They still hadn’t all been together since that day. The day they went to that house. That stupid fucking piece of shit house with that stupid fucking piece of shit  _ clown. _ Richie hadn’t seen -- or heard -- from anyone but Stan. Richie had spent most of the time since at the Capitol Theatre Arcade to keep himself busy. That’s what he’d originally said this summer was going to be about after all, right? The arcade. Not- tracking down and fighting fucking demonic space clowns. Not risking their lives and getting the shit kicked out of them. Not getting punched in the face by Bill or terrorized by a clown or- seeing Eddie almost get eaten alive right in front of him. 

Richie’s brows drew together as a frown settled in his features while he absently looked down at where he was picking at what was becoming a bald spot in the grass in front of him. He didn’t notice for a few more quiet moments that Stan was looking at him again, and Richie’s features smoothed over as he blinked at him and gave a slight smile before stating, “Take a picture Stanny, it’ll last longer. I’ll even sign it for you, so you can sell it and make a profit when I’m rich and famous.”

After a deep inhale, Stan let out a long sigh and asked, exasperated, “Will you shut up?” To be fair, it wasn’t a question so much as it was a statement. Stan’s eyes flicked down to the ground and he added after another moment of silence, “I don’t know what to do.” 

At that, Richie fell quiet for a minute before asking, “About your dad?” 

There was a pause during which Stan legitimately looked like he was thinking that over for a moment before he replied, “I’m not actually worried about that right now.” He admitted, seeming almost surprised at the admission, and Richie’s eyebrows lifted in slight surprise, as well. 

“I’ll have to see him again eventually, obviously.” Stan continued, “But at the end of the day he’ll be no different from the way he always is. Disappointed. He’s always disappointed with me.”

While Stan spoke, Richie’s fingers, unbeknownst to him, had stilled where they had been picking at the grass. 

“I mean about- everybody else.”

Richie blinked as he looked at Stan, watching his face while he spoke, and continued to say nothing, waiting for him to continue, knowing he wasn’t finished speaking. 

“Bill. Ben. Mike. Eddie. Beverly.”

Stan paused for a moment, thinking to himself, before he continued. 

“That’s all I was thinking about. When I was in there. I know we’re- I don’t know. I know everyone is upset right now. I’m upset, too. I never wanted to go in there to begin with. I never want to go in again. But- everything feels wrong now. And not because of the house, or the clown. That didn’t help. But it feels worse that we’re not even all talking, anymore. I don’t know if we’re not going to talk again or be friends anymore, and I’m still upset, and scared-” 

The more Stan spoke, the more his own nerves crept back in to his voice and threatened to betray him as his words began to break along with his voice. Richie hesitated before putting a hand on Stan’s shoulder and looking at him earnestly, nodding once when Stan paused and looked at him, inhaling deeply before continuing. 

“I don’t feel differently about the house. I think it was insane and I hate how all of this makes me feel so scared all the time.” He confessed, before he repeated, more firmly, “I hate how  _ scared _ I feel  _ all the time _ . But-” He paused, blinking a few times before continuing and rubbing at his eyes which had begun to glaze over with a shine of the beginning of tears, “I meant what I said. I’m  _ always _ going to be a Loser.  _ We  _ are always supposed to be the Losers, and now that we’re suddenly- What? We’re not? I don’t know what to do! I don’t want to not be with everyone anymore. I don’t want it to not be all of us anymore because I wanted it to be all of us forever. And- as afraid as I am any other time and as afraid I was that day,” he swallowed and sniffed, “I’m more afraid  _ now _ than I’ve been all summer because I’m afraid of losing everything. Of losing everyone. I don’t want to lose anyone.”

As Stan talked, Richie listened. Richie would nod sometimes to reassure him that he was listening and he understood him, and whenever Stan seemed to start to doubt what he was saying or whether or not he was making any sense, Richie would pat him on the shoulder, just gently enough to keep him going. Because Richie  _ did _ understand Stan, and he knew what he meant, because Richie felt the same way. 

Of course he was mad. He was hurt. Bill, who everyone looked up to, had shoved him and punched him in the face. They’d gone into that house together, and Richie had let  _ It _ separate Eddie from them. He knew what they were going into and  _ still _ he didn’t notice it was happening until it was too late to do anything, which Richie couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t. So of course he was mad, and hurt, but he was scared, too. Scared like Stan. Not really even of the clown now, but of what was going to happen to all of them. What was going to happen to all of them? 

Richie turned to wrap his arms around Stan. On a normal day, when Richie was being obnoxious and irritating perhaps for the fun of it, Stan might have shoved at him or made some clipping remark. But today, Stan just turned and wrapped his arms around Richie, too. Their faces pressed respectively into one another’s shoulders, and if Stan was crying and shaking a little in the hug, Richie didn’t tease him, either. They just held each other like that for a long, outstretched, uninterrupted moment.

Richie had known Stan longer than any of the other Losers, and Stan always seemed to know everything even before Richie knew it himself. All of the Losers loved and understood one another in their own ways, but there would always be individual dynamics; and no one would quite understand some parts of Richie the way Stan would. Stan was a best friend. And in different ways, so was Bill. And Eddie. All of them. But Stan was, too. So they held each other.

Richie realized absently that far off, he could hear some birds chirping, and he bet Stan had already taken silent account and noted them in his mind. It’s just what Stan did.

When they eventually broke apart, Richie gave a final reassuring, soft pat to Stan’s shoulder while Stan rubbed his eyes and exhaled softly.

“I know.” Richie finally said, after a minute of silence, “I don’t want to lose anyone, either.”

Stan paused as he seemed to consider Richie’s comment before asking, “Have you heard from Eddie?” Stan knew as well as anyone that if any of them were likely to hear from Eddie after everything that had happened, it was bound to be Richie.

That had Richie’s head snapping up as he looked to Stan, hesitating before shaking his head as his expression fell despite his efforts otherwise. “Nothing.” He replied.

Richie couldn’t even remember the last time he got to just be with Eddie in a situation that  _ wasn’t  _ fucking horrifying. They’d gone from being scared shitless and clutching at each other in Bill’s garage while the fucking clown crawled out of the wall, to Eddie falling through the floor in that  _ fucking  _ house and breaking his arm, to Richie running in with Bill and seeing It- the  _ clown _ , posed over Eddie, ready to rip his throat out right then in front of them, Eddie screaming for help, to Eddie being ripped away by his mom as she declared he would never be seeing any of them again. 

Just like that, Eddie had gone from being supported by Richie and Mike out of Mike’s bicycle basket to being snatched away and shoved into his mom’s car, driven off- and that was it. He hadn’t even gotten to talk to him or say goodbye or-  _ anything _ . 

The last time Richie had even really been  _ near  _ Eddie, he was just trying to take Eddie’s attention off the fucking horrifying demonic clown coming towards them where Eddie was propped, screaming, up against the wall with his broken arm. Richie, clinging to Eddie, despite knowing there was nothing he could do in the way of protection.

What’s more, though, was that Richie had no way of knowing if not hearing from Eddie was Sonia Kaspbrak’s influence or Eddie’s own decision. None of Richie’s friends’ parents were especially keen on their children associating with him, but Sonia Kaspbrak took it to another level. Richie didn’t help, he knew that, but he hated her. He hated how she treated Eddie, how she would cram Eddie’s head with lies and manipulate him and guilt trip him and make him feel like shit and  _ especially _ how she didn’t love him. Not really.

But what about now? Eddie might not even  _ want  _ to see Richie. Richie certainly wouldn’t fucking blame him. He couldn’t, could he? After that? Would Eddie ever want to really see any of them, again? Want to see  _ Richie _ again, after Richie had let him get separated from him and Bill even though he and Eddie had been flanking Bill together, only to be terrorized and nearly killed by the fucking clown? No, Richie figured. No, he wouldn’t blame him.

“Are you going to try and talk to him?”

Stan’s question brought Richie back out of his thoughts, and Richie looked at him, and tried to smile before responding in an exceptionally shitty British accent, “Doubt his Sir Tininess would be feelin’ really keen on hearin’ from the likes of me right now, now would he?”

Stan frowned, and said again in the same, exasperated tone, “Richie.”

At that, Richie frowned again and inhaled deeply before huffing out a frustrated breath and responding, “What? What do you want me to say?” He asked, looking back down at the grass and beginning to pick at it again, “None of us are talking. That includes Eddie. Even if I tried to talk to him, what would I say? ‘Sorry I almost let you die back there? Sorry for snapping your broken arm back and maybe even fucking it up worse? Wanna hang out today?’” 

Richie fell silent for a moment before adding, “You heard his fucking mom. She doesn’t want him seeing us anymore. You know what she’s like. She already fucking hated me to begin with, if I try to come within a five-mile radius of him she’ll run off with him to the fucking Andes or some shit and then I’ll really never see him again.”

“He’s probably miserable right now,” Stan stated, looking at Richie as if that alone had been an explanation of some sort. 

“Right, because he was having such a blast having his arm snapped and being nearly eaten-alive by a fucking demonic clown.”

“You know what I mean.” Stan said, pausing before adding, “You miss him, don’t you Richie?”

“Didn’t we just cover all of this?” Richie retaliates, perhaps a bit too defensively. He doesn’t mean it to be like that. It just happens, sometimes, when he feels vulnerable or- scared. It’s what had got him in the fight with Bill. Being scared and feeling defensive and snapping at his friends. He didn’t mean it. He was just scared. Eddie had almost died. His mom had just taken him away and said they’d never see him again. He didn’t know if he’d see him again or when or- if Eddie would even want to. He was scared. 

Richie forced himself to pause to try and collect himself for a moment before adding, his tone still cautious, if only in defense of himself against himself, “No shit I miss him. That idiot hasn’t lectured me in over half a month, now, how am I supposed to be expected to keep myself in check?”

There’s a long silence that follows before Stan asks, more tentative than even he normally does, “Richie, do you like Eddie?”

The sound of Stan’s voice as he asks, steady and even, makes the question sound like it’s not even really a question. Like Stan already knows the answer.

At that, beyond his own control, Richie’s heart rate skyrockets. Suddenly Richie feels like he’s hearing his own pulse, loud in his ears, and he feels even hotter in that moment than he did before he’d taken his suit coat off. He pushes his glasses up his nose where they’d been slipping down, a nervous habit, and looks back to Stan. 

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It’s alright.” Stan says, his voice steady, reassuring, and even. Like always.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that.” Richie replies, attempting to deflect the question, redirecting his attention back to the grass. 

“It’s alright, Richie.” Stan repeats, and there’s more behind the words than what he says out loud. Richie knows. He knows that Stan knows, and it’s no surprise because Stan  _ always _ knows even before Richie lets  _ himself _ know.

Richie’s throat suddenly feels too tight, and he swallows uncomfortably. “Obviously I like him, he’s one of my best friends; what the fuck am I supposed to say to a question like that?” He’s ripping up grass in fistfuls, now, and refusing to look up. “It doesn’t matter anyway, because he hates me, now. His mom hates me and she won’t even have to brainwash him into hating me because I’ll have done enough to make him feel that way, himself.” The more Richie talks, the more nervous he feels, and he knows it’s creeping into the sound of his voice. 

“You know that’s not true, Richie.”

“I don’t know  _ shit _ is true, Stan. How am I supposed to expect Eds even still wants to be my friend at this point? Let alone- anything else. Of course I fucking like him.” Richie’s eyes are welling up, to his own frustration, and his voice is breaking before he can stop himself from continuing, “And now I don’t even know if I’ll get to see him again. If I’ll get to see him ever, anymore, and even if I did who knows if he’d even  _ want _ to be around me? Stupid. So fucking  _ stupid _ .”

Stan’s looking at Richie now, silent as he watches him, and Richie hates it; but he doesn’t. He knows he doesn’t hate Stan for anything. It’s not that. He hates how vulnerable and exposed he feels. He hates how he’s thinking again about what happened in the Capitol arcade, and afterwards in the park with the Paul Bunyan statue last weekend. He hates this stupid fucking town and it’s dumb fucking clown that’s found a way to interfere with his summer and his friends. He hates how his friends aren’t talking right now and he hates feeling like part of it must somehow be his fault. He hates how he doesn’t know what’s going on with him, and who he is and what he’s feeling and what it means and what that makes him. 

And he especially hates the little nagging fear at the back of his mind that keeps urging him to wonder on what if what everyone else says is right -- he thinks back on what Henry called him in the arcade -- and what might that do to the way his friends see him. 

He hates not knowing where he falls into all of this and- what he  _ hates _ is how Stan can act so-  _ calm. _ How can he do that? How can he act like everything is fine when it’s all so clearly fucked? How can he look at Richie like that like he already sees it all and it already makes sense when Richie doesn’t know what to do or what’s going on? How can Stan watch him and look like he already both knows everything and simultaneously knows all the answers? He hates it. He hates how scared he is.

Abruptly without warning even to himself, all at once, everything Richie’s been holding in ever since they fought after that stupid house seems to somehow sort of break out of him. When he attempts to speak, his voice breaks as he admits, “I don’t know what to fucking  _ do _ .” 

He doesn’t even know what his words are specifically referring to, because to be honest, he doesn’t really know what to do about anything right now. About the fucking clown, about his friends, about who he is or what he’s feeling, about  _ Eddie, _ about any and all of it. His breath hitches in broken bursts between the cries that begin to spill out of him, despite his efforts.

It’s not the first time Stan has seen Richie cry, and there’s no doubt it won’t be the last, but that doesn’t ease the uneasiness Richie feels and the way his chest feels suddenly tight and aching or the way his shoulders shake in time with his breaths that escape him. His hands find their way up to his face, fumbling as they irritatedly tug his glasses off, tossing them off aggravatedly to the side between himself and Stan. 

At least now, he thinks, he can’t really clearly  _ see  _ Stan’s gentle, calm eyes watching him as he embarrasses himself.

Richie digs the heels of his palms into his eyes as he cries, and he feels so stupid. Crying like this all of a sudden. What’s wrong with him?

“I like him, Stan.”

It falls out of him, a quiet confession in between his cries, his hands still over eyes rubbing there until he begins to see spots in his vision behind his eyelids and stills them.

“I like him.” He repeats, more to himself this time, thinking about his time at the kissing bridge only two days ago. Thinking about the effort he put into what he did. The initials he left behind. Their initials. 

Part of him had felt like he should hate himself for doing it. Like he  _ knew _ he was doing something he shouldn’t have. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. He  _ wanted _ it to stick. Wanted it to be permanent. He never wanted to forget how he felt, even if anyone else out there might not think he should, because that was the part he was  _ sure  _ of. How Eddie made him feel. So he  _ wanted _ to leave a mark. He wanted it to be there forever, just like he wanted to feel that way forever.

Gradually, Richie began to stop crying, but his breaths still came out in hitching, shuddering motions as he attempted to collect himself. Quiet and patient as ever, Stan waited by his side.

“I know.” Stan finally spoke, and Richie turned to look in his direction despite not really being able to properly see Stan in that moment. “It’s alright,” Stan said to Richie a third time.

“It’s not,” Richie breathed out, “None of this is. It’s all fucked.”

“Yeah.” Stan agrees, after a moment, “But it’s still alright, Richie. It’s going to be fine.”

Stan paused after those words left him, and looked as though he was considering what he’d said, himself, mulling it over. Not as though he didn’t believe what he’d said though, no. If anything, Stan looked contemplative over the statement that everything was going to be fine because it looked like he was actually letting himself really believe it for the first time, too.

Richie doesn’t say anything, then. He doesn’t let himself think about how usually, Stan does know what he’s talking about. Most of the time. He’d never admit it, though, so don’t quote him on that. He sits there quietly and thinks about what Stan said, about not wanting to lose anyone. He didn’t want to lose anyone, either. He just wanted his friends back. He could be fine forever if they could all just be together again, all of them. He’d be happy with that. He could be.

“I don’t want to lose anyone, either.” Richie finally adds.

Silence follows, as Stan hears his own words from earlier repeated back to him, and he moves to wrap his arms around Richie, this time. 

It turns out that Stan’s hug is all it takes for Richie’s tears to return, and he cries there, but the tears are quieter this time. Softer. Not quite as frightened. 

Richie sits there, wrapping his arms back around Stan and just holding on to him for a moment, thankful for the company.

Stan holds on to him and says, after a long minute of just being there with Richie with the two of them in their arms wrapped around one another, “You won’t lose any of us, Richie. Not any of us.”

Richie hears the unspoken thoughts behind Stan’s words, and he hopes for it to be true. 

_ Please _ , he thinks.  _ I don’t want to lose anyone. _

After a while, Stan begins to pull away and Richie sits there, sniffing and wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve over his forearm. 

“Gross.” Stan remarks, though there’s no bite in his voice.

“Be glad I didn’t wipe it all over your shoulder, shit dick. Would’ve served you right, holding me when I’m all weepy. A right damsel in distress!” Richie clapped back, a small breath of a laugh escaping him as he rubbed his hands over his eyes again.

“Do us both a favor and shut up, Richie.” Stan retorted, as if on natural reflex, turning to grab Richie’s discarded glasses from beside them and lifting them up to return them to Richie’s face.

As Richie’s eyes adjusted to his glasses being on again, he blinked a few times and squinted before saying, “Oh Stan, was that you this whole time? I thought I’d just stumbled into some sweet ol’ granny in the park who got caught up with what a strapping young lad I am. But hey, you’re not far-off from that, are you? Thanks anyway for the glasses,” he remarks, with a small, shit-eating grin and a little two-fingered salute.

At that, Stan tries to hold a stern look with Richie for a moment before he can no longer help it and a smile breaks through on his features and he grins, shaking his head as his own laughter begins to bubble up out of him. 

It’s not long before Richie is joining in and the two of them are sitting there together, under the tree, laughing at nothing in particular. But it feels fucking good and that’s for sure, so they have at it since neither of them can remember the last time they really laughed.

“You’re an idiot.” Stan remarks, at last.

“No,” Richie corrects, lifting a finger and shooting Stan a knowing expression, “I’m a  _ Loser _ .” 

It’s fucking cheesy and Richie knows it, but at the same time, it feels right. He’s not sitting here in grass-stained powder blue suit pants with dried tears on his face and a still slightly stuffed-up nose because he’s trying to be cool, after all. He’s here because that’s what they do. Losers are there for each other. They stick together, and they’re a unit. All of them. 

And maybe Richie doesn’t let himself believe it one-hundred percent right then, but Stan is right. Things  _ will _ be alright, and they  _ will _ all have each other. Always.

Smiling softly at Richie’s response, Stan nods before finishing for him, “And you always fucking will be.”


End file.
